Conquistador

It was late into the evening, maybe one or two A.M. and maybe six or even eight of the potent pineapple-flavoured Conquistador cocktails down when Mark Zuckerberg decided that fuck it he would try Dance Dance Revolution. A handful of his employees had been playing for the last three or four hours while Mark had been sitting in the booth, nodding along to inconsequential conversations and watching the group laugh and jump around on the colourful glowing foot sensors. So, shakily he stood and drained the remnants of his Conquistador through the twirly straw that barely remained in the wide-rimmed glass and approached the arcade machine. “Who’s up next?” he blurted out as the group parted to allow his advance but no one spoke and the machine continued its pounding beat and chimes of success and failure as Adrienne Bard from the UX team divided her attention between keeping step with the cascading coloured arrows and Mark standing behind her.

“Uh, you can go next man,” Sam Henderman said, “if you want.” Sam had a large brown mole in the spot between his eyebrows and Mark fixed his attention at this protruding orb as he felt his body sway like one of those bobble-head dogs suburban soccer mothers affix to their car dashboards.

“I will go next, Sam,” Mark said, never taking his eyes off Sam’s mole.